Statistics

It took 4560 km to circumnavigate the Baltic Sea - 3051 km by bicycle, 914
km by
train and 595 km by ferry. From Stockholm back to Stockholm took one month, of
which 21 days were spent cycling.

Spare parts

I carried a basic kit with most of the conventional cycle tools (chain
breaker, crank extractor, spoke wrench, cluster remover, etc). The
only repairs required during the trip were fixing two punctures and
one torn tyre (cut by broken glass on a Danish bicycle track). I
repaired the latter by weaving a mat from string and inserting it
between the tyre and tube. Although cycling became more bumpy, the
repair held for the remaining 1000 km of the trip.

Accomodation

My tent provided accomodation most nights of the trip. In the Baltic States
there was little alternative as I encountered few hotels, guest houses or even
campgrounds along the route. Since cycling days ended late and started early I
put the tent up in isolated forests away from the main road. In cities I stayed
either in Youth Hostels (Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Riga), cheap hotels (Tartu,
Szczecin) or private accomodation (Gdansk). I rarely encountered anywhere that
was full, even when I arrived late at night.

Visas

As a Canadian citizen I required a visa for Poland, Latvia and Russia. Polish
and Latvian visas were straightforward, required no official invitation and
could be obtained for a period up to three months. The Russian visa was more
problematic. After a few false starts I applied for a double-entry business
visa
supported by an official invitation from the Russian Academy of Science (I was
giving a scientific lecture there anyway). The St. Petersburg part went
fine but
I was refused entry to Kaliningrad, requiring a 500 km detour through the
Lithuanian-Polish border but the chance to cycle through the stunning Masurian
Lakes region of Poland. Even with hindsight it's hard to see how to have done
it; a separate transit visa for Kaliningrad requires knowing exactly the 48
hour
window that you will reach the area after cycling through the Baltic States for
more than a week.

Food and Water

I generally carried food supplies for 2-3 days since places to buy food
were not
abundant in Russia or the Baltic States. Breakfast was always muesli and
powdered milk, supplemented by fruit if I could get it. Lunch and dinner were
bread (or dry biscuits), cheese and some veggies. I usually splashed out for a
hot meal every few days with the exception of Latvia and Russia (where
resturants were non-existent) and the Scandinavian countries (where restaurants
were too expensive). I drank the local water everywhere but treated it in
Russia, Poland and the Baltic States with iodine solution.

Safety

Before the trip I was bombarded with stories of how dangerous it was to cycle
alone in Russia, the Baltic States and Poland. I was therefore highly cautious,
but in the end I had no problems and never felt threatened.

Money

My funds were in Deutschmarks which I carried in pockets sewn into the tongues
of my cycling shoes. There was usually a place to change enough money at border
crossings to get by with, and I used banks when more supplies were required. I
also carried Eurocheques and two credit cards (VISA and Eurocard), although
there was little opportunity to use these.

Languages

Already fluent in English and German, I studied Russian in the
"Volkshochschule"
for eight months before the trip to supplement my arsenal. Russian was
invaluable in Russia, and surprisingly also in Latvia where nearly everyone I
spoke with was Russian. Reading road signs in Russia and deciphering the maps
would have been difficult not knowing the Cyrillic alphabet. With my Baltic
States phrase book I could always start a conversation in the Baltic States in
the appropriate language, even if we had to revert to Russian when things got
too complex (nearly everyone still speaks Russian in the Baltic States, but
they
are understandably reluctant to use it). I rarely met anyone who spoke English
or German in the Baltic States, even in the "tourist" areas that I passed
through. German was useful in Poland, not because people still speak it from
their childhood but because they learned it for the German tourists. The same
applies to Jutland in Denmark where the most common language after Danish was
German. English was widely understood in Finland, Denmark, Norway and Sweden. I
learned the most important words in each language for every country that I
passed through, which brought smiles to most faces.

Climate

The trip went from mid-June to mid-July, which is generally the wettest time of
the year for most of the area around the Baltic Sea. Summer came late to Europe
this year, so it was cooler than normal (the daily temperature was usually
around 15 C). The weather patterns provided an exciting diversion from the
otherwise flat and monotonous landscape, particularly in Poland and Denmark
where several thunderstorms went through each day. The wind blew steadily from
the southwest during the ride through Russia, the Baltic States, Poland and
Germany, but changed to northwest when I turned the corner in Denmark,
resulting
in a headwind on 17 consecutive cycling days. This was compensated, however, by
a strong west tailwind on the first day from Turku to Helsinki, and a strong
north wind on the three days from Oslo to Stockholm.

Books

Scandinavian & Baltic Europe, Lonely Planet Publications, 1995.

Russia, Ukraine & Belarus, Lonely Planet Publications, 1996.

Poland, Lonely Planet Publications, 1993.

Baltic States Phrasebook, Lonely Planet Publications, 1995.

Maps

Finland: Karttakeskus Vagkarta 1:200 000

Russia: BKF Avtodorozhnaya Karta 1:500 000

Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania: GeoCenter Euro-Roadatlas 1:300 000

Poland: PPWK Mapa Krajoznamcza 1:300 000

Germany: Falk-Verlag Touristenkarte 1:150 000

Denmark: Dansk Cyklist Forbund Cykelferiekortet 1:500 000

Norway, Sweden: RV Verlag Euro-Regionalkarte 1:300 000

I purchased most maps in petrol stations or shops just after entering the
country. Exceptions were the Russian map, which I purchased at a kiosk in St.
Petersburg, and the Baltic States Atlas, which I purchased at a bookstore in
Helsinki.

Roads Used

Finland:

Highway E18 - in great condition but lots of traffic, especially
trucks. A substantial part of the route had high quality bicycle tracks
alongside.

Sweden:

Trip report

Prelude

I had been thinking aloud to Richard about plans for the following summer.
In an
indiscreet moment he suggested that I should discard tedious ideas like cycling
in northern Sweden and do something really spectacular like cycling around the
Baltic Sea. It took all of about a minute for the idea to take root (he keeps
his mouth shut these days about ideas for cycling trips) and my mind raced with
possibilities. The starting and finishing point would be Stockholm - a
chance to
spend time with good friends and to use a free airline ticket that was about to
expire. Communication in eastern Europe might be a problem so I would learn
Russian at the "Volkshochschule". Enquiries about visas, border crossings and
ferry schedules kept me amused through the winter and my passport spent the
spring travelling around the east European consulates. I contacted a few
scientific colleagues in Scandinavia and preparation was complete.

Sweden

It started with the drive to Nuernberg airport, a flight to Stockholm, and the
first pedal strokes in the late evening toward the ferry terminal 40 km distant
with only a compass bearing as a guide. Several hours later I reached the
deserted terminal and found a quiet spot in the nearby forest to sleep. The sky
was still light when I finally dozed off near midnight, only to awaken at 2 am
to a different light in the sky.

"Sunrise!", I realised with a shock.

I slept fitfully the rest of the night and was glad when early morning arrived
and I could pedal off to the ferry. The boat was enormous, unlike any I had
ever
been on. I felt like a child as I prowled through all thirteen decks, exploring
the shopping mall, cinemas, hairdressers, duty-free supermarket, bank, casino,
disco, swimming pool, sauna and restaurants. But the best part was standing
outside on the top deck, looking down on the thousands of islands passing by. I
became lost in reveries imagining the life on each island that we passed - the
sprawling estates enveloped by trees, the mossy green meadows, and the lonely
islands of bare rock ringed by the white foam of the crashing waves.

My reveries were broken when several groups of German tourists discovered the
upper decks. Although I count Germans among some of my best friends, some
strange transformation seems to occur when they venture abroad. At first they
were amusing, but the novelty wore off after several nearly had a punch up over
a deck chair. I retired to the floor of an unused corporate lounge to catch up
on lost sleep.

Finland

I arrived some 10 000 years after the Finns' ancestors migrated into land left
by the retreating Ice Age. Their numbers were fortified by migrations primarily
from the south and the east, and enriched with contact with the Vikings. Sweden
took over Finland in the middle of the 12th century and Russia moved in
from the
east, eventually taking over all of Finland by the early 1800s.
Independence was
declared in 1917 but relations with Russia remained complex, and although
Finland attempted to remain neutral during the Second World War, they ended up
fighting both Germany and Russia, suffering heavy losses. In the post-war
period
Finland maintained strict international neutrality and friendly relations with
the USSR, yet preserved their independent status. Finland joined the European
Union in 1995.

The Finnish language belongs to the Finno-Ugric subfamily of the Uralic
languages, not related to Indo-European languages. Finnish has been the
official
language of Finland since the early 19th century, but Swedish is still
prominent
and all Finns learn Swedish at school.

Reality came in a thrilling rush as I cycled off the ferry - it was about to
start! After a restful sleep in the Turku youth hostel I set off for Helsinki.
The weather gods were kind to me on the first day: bright sunshine with a light
breeze blowing and the sky filled with fluffy clouds. The gravel used to pave
the roads was full of mica that glistened in the sun, but gave the unsettling
impression of glass on the road. The countryside was mostly undulating forest
dotted with numerous lakes, the intense northern light illuminating the
landscape with an unearthly glow punctuated with intense shadows.

The cycle tracks in Finland were wonderful. These weren't just the short tracks
that meander around major towns, the "let's go cycling with the family for an
hour" type; these were proper long distance cycling routes sensibly located
alongside the major highways, a no nonsense "I want to cycle to Helsinki today"
sort. That Helsinki was nearly 200 km distant didn't make an impression at
first.

It was unreasonable to expect the cycle tracks to last forever, and the first
crisis of the trip came a few hours after I had been cycling on highway 110.
Traffic from the E18 motorway had recently joined the road and the frequency of
trucks became particularly high. The wind generated by each passing truck
nearly
tore off my clothes and I was continually unwrapping coils of shirt from my
neck. I pulled into a lay by and collected my wits. Headache, sore eyes,
feeling
out of sorts - quite a pathetic picture and hardly the invincible touring
cyclist that people took me to be. I reached into my panniers for life's
antidote to such misfortunes (chocolate) and gradually things got better.

Around the 120 km mark I found another of Finland's wonderful long distance
cycle tracks and began to think of reaching Helsinki that evening. It was
almost
with regret when I finally arrived at the Helsinki youth hostel - I had cycled
187 km on the first day of touring.

A growing feeling of dread was starting to haunt me. Everyone I had confided my
plans to recently thought I was mad to contemplate such a trip. Did I really
plan to cycle through Russia? The last straw came at the Helsinki railway
station when I went to arrange Mackenzie's transport to St. Petersburg.
Tales of
modern day bandits on the road from Vyborg to St. Petersburg put me off the
idea
of cycling that stretch. Motorists are advised to fill their tanks with petrol
on the Finnish side and stop for no one until reaching St. Petersburg, lest
they
be forced at gun point to abandon their car and watch while the bandits drive
away. Although the thought of bandits balancing on Mackenzie and pedalling into
the distance had some appeal, it didn't seem worth the risk. So there I was at
the railway station listening to the incredulous man at the baggage room saying
"You want to send your bicycle where?!" Then his colleague came to life saying
there was no way he would let *his* daughter do such an insane trip. This was
getting tedious. Fortunately Finnish professionalism prevailed and they
processed the paperwork without further discussion.

As I walked to the railway station in the early hours of the next morning I
decided that one of life's greatest tragedies for a cyclist was to be deprived
of one's bicycle. It was hosing down with rain, and by the time I had hauled
myself and all my gear over the 3 km distance I was soaked to the skin. But the
train was luxurious, and I happily passed the time practising Russian verb
conjugations and reading up on Russian history.

Russia

Early Russia developed from migration of numerous ethnic groups, predominantly
the Slavs. But it was the Vikings that gave Russia not only its name, but also
its first ruler. Sweden controlled the area around St. Petersburg until the
13th
century, and later in the 17th century. Peter the Great founded the city of St.
Petersburg in the early 18th century and moved the capital from Moscow. It was
renamed Petrograd in 1914 and Leningrad in 1924. Hitler targeted the city in
1941, and between 500 000 and 1 000 000 people died from the shelling, famine
and disease. The city was reconstructed after the war, although it took several
decades to regain its former population. During the 1991 coup in Moscow
hundreds
of thousands of people in Leningrad took to the streets, and shortly after the
city returned to its original name of St. Petersburg.

The Russian language belongs to the Slavic subfamily of Indo-European languages
and uses the Cyrillic alphabet, developed in the 9th century for Eastern
Orthodox Slavs and based on the Greek alphabet. During my time in Russia I
found
few people who spoke English or German, a marvellous incentive to improve my
Russian beyond the repetitious drills that constituted much of our Russian
class.

No one paid particular notice as I cycled from the railway station to the youth
hostel in St. Petersburg. All the stories had worked my imagination into
overdrive, and it was with great relief that I discovered that people on the
streets were not in fact brandishing knives with my name on them. I visited and
gave a lecture at the Russian Academy of Sciences, accompanied by a
simultaneous
Russian translation. For a reward I received the various stamps on my visa that
would get me out of the country. Sleeping was difficult with nearly 24 hour
daylight - it was the time of the St. Petersburg White Nights and darkness
never
really came while I was there.

Everyone I confided my plans to in St. Petersburg was aghast at my intention to
cycle west to the border, so it was with some trepidation that I loaded
Mackenzie in the early morning of my departure. Some surprises were waiting, to
be sure. Cyclists (of which I seemed to be the only one) had no priority on the
road, and I was regularly forced to take evasive manoeuvres when motorists
turned into my path. Trolley tracks popped out everywhere from the street like
frost heave, and potholes reached depths that would swallow my tyres whole. The
journey seemed endless and for awhile I imagined I was a character in a Kafka
story. But just as I was thinking I was doomed to spend the rest of my days
there, I arrived at the edge of town, 45 km after leaving the youth hostel.

The motorway started soon after, and with a guilty pleasure that only a person
living in Germany could appreciate, I boldly cycled onto the M11. There was
little traffic and the road was in great condition; in retrospect it was one of
the best roads of the trip. Every small village was lined with people by the
side of the road selling odd items like cookware sets, but there wasn't much
food available and I was glad that I had stocked up before leaving. Even petrol
stations were infrequent, but a source of gratification as I sneered at them
with the contemptuous smile of the self-propelled. I still felt apprehensive
about my safety, but started to unwind a bit when I realised that everyone was
too involved with their own problems to be concerned about a solitary cyclist.
There were numerous GAI (Gosudarstvennaya Avtomobilnaya Inspektsia)
checkpoints,
in fact six between St. Petersburg and the border, and I had heard tales of
documents being confiscated, trumped up fines being levied, and cars being shot
at for failing to pull over. I approached each enclave of uniformed and armed
men with trepidation, but I was waved through all but the last where they only
asked to see my passport. Life looked hard for people in the villages, and I
wondered if they even had enough to eat. One woman just outside St. Petersburg
yelled at me in angry earnest, saying "You have so much money, why are you so
stupid to travel with a bicycle?"

I had to stop for water several times, and each time I rehearsed carefully the
word for water (voda) in my head several times that I didn't accidentally ask
for vodka. None of the villages I passed through seemed to have running water,
so I had to get water from the communal wells. At one well there were a pair of
old babushkas who drew the water for me and thought I was the greatest thing
since sliced bread.

There had been monsoon-like rain over the past few days, but it diminished to
only moderate rain on and off through the afternoon. I didn't realise it then,
but this was Day 1 of a head wind that was to last until Norway. The landscape
was flat and monotonous but with lots of forest. Progress was tediously slow on
my 1:400 000 map, so I invented a simple game to pass the time. I had to
pronounce all the names on each direction sign that I came to several times out
loud before I was allowed to look at the map to see how far I'd progressed. My
Russian was feeble enough that gems like "Alexandrovskaya" and
"Nobolyatnitschkaye" kept me amused as I stuttered out the sounds, and almost
before I realised it I had cycled 150 km and was at the Estonian border.

Crossing the border was reminiscent of formalities in 1985 at Checkpoint
Charlie. It felt like a spy exchange on Glienicker Bruecke as I crossed the
Narva
river bridge that separated Estonia from Russia. It took approximately one hour
to thread myself and Mackenzie through the bureaucracy, including a 15 minute
interlude when I was pulled from the queue amidst animated discussion between
the border guards. One asked me just what I thought I was doing and was rather
amused when I told him.

Estonia

Late that evening in the tent I started reading about Estonia. Originally
settled by the Ests, it was invaded in the 12th century by Denmark and later
ceded to the Order of Teutonic Knights, resulting in domination by a German
nobility and the Hanseatic League. Sweden took over in the 16th century but
lost
out to Peter the Great and the Russian Empire in the 18th century. A growing
nationalism led to independence in 1918, which lasted until the
Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact near the start of the Second World War when Estonia
became a republic of the USSR. More than 60 000 Estonians fled to Sweden and
Germany after the war, and an equivalent number were killed or deported. After
Communist rule collapsed in the USSR in 1991 the Soviet government formally
recognised the independence of the Baltic republics.
I realised that Russian might not be a popular language in Estonia, so I made
some effort to learn essential phrases in Estonian. The language is part of the
Finno-Ugric subfamily of the Uralic languages and looked most similar to
Finnish.

Nearly 40% of Estonia is forested, but relatively flat. At first glance it
looked similar to Russia with its drab tenement buildings, grey store
fronts and
boarded up restaurants, but a closer look revealed a surprising affluence.
Modern development was taking place at breakneck pace, and there was a general
air of prosperity betrayed by the frequency of non-Russian cars, smart looking
petrol stations and colourful shop fronts. In Tartu I discovered bookshops full
of quality hardback Estonian titles and translated bestsellers - a testament to
the rebirth of the Estonian language.

Curiously Estonia had some of the worst roads. One of the more interesting
examples was a curious roadworks where tractors scraped the dirt from the side
of the road and spread it in a thick layer over half of the driving lane. When
another tractor came the other way and performed the same on the opposite side,
the entire road was reduced to a single lane that made cycling somewhat
interesting.
My guidebook said that Estonians were not openly friendly and they weren't
wrong. I was seldom rewarded with that thrill that comes from addressing
someone
in their own language and seeing their face light up with a smile. The first
time I stopped at a farmer's house to ask for water I was met with unblinking
stares, the "What planet do you come from?" sort. After a few such
experiences I
gave it up and asked for water only at bars where people were less suspicious.
More opportunities for interaction came when I cycled past queues of people
waiting for buses, but a cheerful "Tere hommikust" from me was usually met with
suspicious stares reserved for axe murderers and such types.

The crisis of the trip came about 80 km into Estonia when I gradually realised
that something was not right. I was stopping every 2-3 km and staring
zombie-like into space, and it was several minutes each time before I could
motivate myself to get back on the bicycle. What was wrong? I couldn't imagine
it was related to the head wind, the rain or the rough road surface - after all
hadn't I anticipated these challenges? In an indulgence of self pity I took
inventory: the raw spots where the seat had rubbed bleeding holes in my body,
the nerve pinched by developing shoulder muscles, and the sore palms and wrists
that produced shooting pains that reverberated from arm to arm. It was true
that
I had probably overplanned the trip, with inflated expectations of the distance
I could cover each day. In fact to reach destinations at the western end of the
journey in time to deliver scheduled lectures I had to average 150 km per day.
It should have been a trivial exercise for me, but the head wind had a definite
retarding influence (or perhaps it was I who was retarded to plan a cycling
trip
from east to west).

This wasn't the first time I had overestimated my abilities, and the memory of
another failure was still fresh in my mind. Earlier in the year I had given
myself 2 1/2 days to cycle 350 km to Heidelberg, the constraint being an
invited
talk at the Goldschmidt Conference on the afternoon of the third day. But the
rigours of an early start after arriving from North America the day before, a
strong head wind with snow and ice storms that had me kicking steps in the ice
up the steeper roads, and a lack of training that left me wheezing for breath -
all of these defeated me and I finally put myself and Mackenzie on a train
halfway through the 2nd day. I did go with the train only to Heilbronn, hoping
that the 80 km cycle along the Neckar river would dispel the cycling blues. But
it was still an extremely dejected and sobered Catherine that arrived in
Heidelberg that evening.
Back in Estonia it was time for drastic action and I stopped in the early
afternoon at the side of Lake Peipus. I walked for ages on the sandy beach
under
dark overcast skies, and gradually my pains subsided. What was all the fuss
about anyway? I was alive, I was healthy, and I was standing at the edge of
Europe's 4th largest lake in a beautiful and remote spot on a trip that I had
dreamed of for nearly a year. Who could ask for more?

The next day I reduced my daily distance, started an enforced regimen of
changing my cycling position every ten minutes, practised riding with no hands,
turned off my cycling computer display, and stopped focusing on anything more
than 5 minutes into the future. This helped considerably, although it was
curious that I still had to impose such discipline after so many long distance
cycling trips. It was not until halfway through Latvia that I discovered the
essential detail: my seat had become loose and tilted forward by a few degrees.
Restoration of the correct angle brought an immediate end to the reverberating
pains in my arms and suddenly I felt ten years younger.
Latvia came after 2 1/2 days of cycling in Estonia and was the start of a
succession of new countries every few days. But the immediate problem was
finding the way in. I arrived in Valga and cycled for one hour in circles
looking for signs. Valga was a casualty of independence and had been split into
two by the border between Estonia and Latvia. Similar to Berlin, families had
been separated across this now quite real border and it wasn't obvious how to
get through; it was as if they were pretending that Latvia didn't exist.
Finally
after asking numerous people I found an unmarked black and white striped gate
leading into an open field - this was finally the door to Latvia.

Latvia

That night in the tent I scrambled to learn about this second Baltic Republic.
Like Estonia the inhabitants were reduced to serfs ruled by a German nobility
and were only freed in the 19th century. Latvia was briefly under Polish
control
until Sweden took over in the 17th century, and then Russia took over in the
18th century. Nationalists declared independence in 1918, although by the time
that a peace treaty was signed in 1920 some 40% of the Latvian population had
been lost through death and emigration. Latvia was occupied by Soviet troops
from 1939-41, by German troops from 1941-45, and then retaken by the Red Army
after the war. Some 175 000 Latvians were killed or deported, but
replenished by
large scale immigration, mostly from nearby parts of Russia. Like Estonia,
Latvia became independent in 1991. Unlike Estonia, Russians still make up a
large part of the population.

The Latvian language is in some danger: just over one half the people living in
Latvia and only one third of those living in Riga speak Latvian as their first
language. Latvian is completely different to Estonian, being part of the Baltic
subfamily of Indo-European languages. Others in the Baltic subfamily are
Lithuanian and Old Prussian, although the latter has been extinct since the
17th
century.

It was quite a shock to enter Latvia. Soviet-style blocks, a plethora of
Russian
cars and rather poor road conditions made it look like Russia all over again.
There was little traffic on the road and sparse habitation; hardly surprising
considering that more than half the population lives in Riga. The highway
divided about 30 km before Riga with a great surface and I had the entire
shoulder (one lane wide) to cycle on. It was all downhill and should have been
glorious, but the relentless headwind was still blowing. I tantalised myself
with the prospect of a boat trip from Riga to Klaipeda (Lithuania), but later
discovered that the boat didn't go anymore.

Riga was a captivating mix of German, Russian and Latvian influences, and full
of shadows from the past. Cycling through the centre was an adventure I'll not
repeat. I splashed out and stayed in a Soviet-style student dormitory for the
princely sum of 5 latis; words fail to describe the wonderful feeling of a hot
shower. The "dezhurnaya" (floor lady) was extremely nice, understood my Russian
(!), and even let me bring Mackenzie into my room away from the thugs. It
was an
extraordinary feeling having my bicycle beside me as I fell asleep, and I
realised with some alarm that I had developed a rather unnatural attachment to
Mackenzie.

After a small hiccup in navigation leaving Riga I was once again on a long,
straight, flat road. I felt even more isolated from the rural population
than in
Estonia and was surprised to find my attempts at speaking Latvian were
generally
made fun of. On several occasions I saw cars with small boys plastered to the
back windows, the boys leering at me with extended middle fingers. I had some
hope that the Latvian meaning was different to the one I knew, but after
another
experience I wasn't so sure. Some children in the fields ran alongside as I
cycled, shouting things I didn't understand, and afterwards were briskly
scolded
by their parents. My heart shrivelled inside. Two days after entering
Latvia the
road stopped and I was in Lithuania.

Lithuania

The third Baltic Republic was different again from its neighbours and I will
never confuse them again. Unlike Latvians and Estonians, the Lithuanians
resisted the Teutonic Knights and formed an alliance with Poland that
established a large empire stretching from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. But
Russian influence increased and most of Lithuania went to Russia in the
Partitions of Poland in the late 18th century. Lithuania became independent in
1918, but like its Baltic neighbours it became part of the USSR in 1940. Within
a year some 40 000 Lithuanians were killed or deported and in the years
following the war more than 200 000 people suffered a similar fate. Lithuania
led the push for independence of the Baltic States in the late 1980s, and with
its neighbours finally gained independence in 1991.

The Lithuanian language is similar to Latvian, being from the same subfamily of
Indo-European languages. Although there are a few similar words, the languages
are not mutually intelligible and I had to commit yet another set of essential
phrases to memory.

The road in Lithuania started out long, straight and flat, quite boring really.
However on the second day it climbed a few hundred metres and I revelled in the
pleasure of stretching little used muscles. There were tantalising glimpses of
lakes through the trees, but my joy was short lived as the terrain
flattened out
again.

After 1 1/2 days of cycling in Lithuania I was at the border with Kaliningrad.
Here was a part of Russia isolated by the receding Soviet tide, but too
important as Russia's only year round ice-free port to have been given up.
Kaliningrad was German from the 13th century until the end of the Second World
War, an important territory of the Teutonic Knights and later the Prussians. In
1945 it was occupied by Soviet troops, most of the remaining Germans were
killed
or sent to Siberia, and its name was changed from Koenigsberg to Kaliningrad.
Until 1990 the region was closed to Western tourists, and even now it
remains an
important military zone.

The city of Kaliningrad was some 120 km from the border, and I had started
early
in anticipation of a full afternoon to tour the city. It was 6 am when I passed
through the Lithuanian border, but on the Russian side of the bridge things
came
unstuck. The border guards looked at my visa (now reduced to a single sheet of
paper), but were perplexed how to deal with what should have been three sheets.
I explained in my best Russian that the consulate in Muenchen had assured
me this
was a double entry visa and that it was valid for Kaliningrad. More discussion
followed. I could tell from their conversation that they didn't want to send me
away, knowing that the detour around Kaliningrad on a bicycle would be long
indeed. They called over the officer handling the truck traffic, but he
couldn't
deal with it either. They took my passport and told me to wait 5 minutes. One
and a half hours went by.

A new official showed up, this one in a smarter uniform and he was quite angry.
The situation rapidly took an alarming turn for the worse, and it dawned on me
that I was in some sort of trouble as he went on about penalties and fines for
improperly registered visas. He was indifferent to my pleas to explain things
slowly as I struggled to keep up with his rapid Russian. I said I would return
to Lithuania and forget about Kaliningrad entirely, but he wouldn't give my
passport back to me. Crikey. He went away and I thought dark thoughts about
bureaucrats in general and the Muenchen consulate in particular. After an hour
another official showed up, this one in an even more impressive uniform. He was
*really* angry. But he spoke English and he had my passport.

"You have an improper visa!", he said in a voice of cold steel. "You must go at
once to the consulate in Klaipeda and apply for a proper visa to enter
Kaliningrad!" He gave me back my passport, and I was so pleased to have it
in my
hands again that I mumbled a meek "Yes, sir" and "Thank you, sir" and pedalled
off back over the bridge as rapidly as dignity would allow.

I bought a fizzy drink at the kiosk on the Lithuanian side of the border and
stared into space for a time before I could bring myself back to the present.
Cycling northwest to Klaipeda 100 km in the wrong direction, dealing again with
Russian bureaucracy, the only good outcome being the permission to do what
I had
planned in the first place but at least three days behind schedule - this
option
had little appeal. On the other hand the possibility of cycling east was
enticing. Discovering more of Lithuania, penetrating deeper into the southeast,
cycling through the northeast region of Poland and the Masurian lakes region -
this prospect filled me with eager anticipation. That the detour was 500 km
seemed a trifling detail as I turned Mackenzie to the east.

I was freed from my schedule! There was no possibility now to reach Copenhagen
in time for my lecture without some form of assisted transportation, which
had a
marvellously liberating effect on my spirit. The only downside was the
anticipated tail wind that wasn't there: the wind gods had maniacally changed
the wind direction to the southeast.

I made progress with my Lithuanian and particularly enjoyed saying thank you
(aciu, pronounced "achoo"), always expecting to hear "Gesundheit"
afterwards. Everyone was in the fields making hay, and I made notes on the
process in my diary. They didn't use much machinery and it wasn't uncommon
to see people wielding huge
sickles to cut the hay. The reputed outgoing friendliness of the Lithuanians
wasn't so evident, though, and I thought about the general coldness of
people in
the Baltic Republics. In some ways it seemed quite an arrogant attitude, that
interaction with a stranger had nothing to contribute to one's life.

To be fair, though, I had little chance for interaction beyond requests for
water, spending most of my waking hours pedalling. Was I crazy to be whizzing
through these interesting cultures in such short times? At two days per country
I barely had time to learn the essential phrases, let alone appreciate the
differences in history and culture. On the other hand a month was not a long
time, and a circular tour left little possibility for turning back. I
remembered
the previous year during my crazy cycling trip from Glashuetten to Rimini
(Italy)
in a week, 1000 km over the Alps. I did make it, but resolved along the way
never to put myself to such a timetable again. How short our memories are,
sometimes.

The last leg in Lithuania was on highway A226, "via Baltica", the only land
link
between the Baltic States and western Europe. The road surface was very bumpy
and there were lots of trucks, but it was quiet compared to the roads in Italy.
The head wind was intense, my pace became slower and slower, and I had to stop
every 5 km or so to catch my breath and ease my aching arms. I felt quite
distant from the Baltic coast, last sighted in Finland. Where were those lonely
windswept shores that I had dreamt about?

Approximately 6 km from the border I came upon a queue of trucks parked by the
side of the road. Could it be? It was. This was the queue waiting for the
border, and a few enquiries revealed that the average wait for trucks was four
days. Golly gosh. I was fascinated looking at the trucks and drivers from all
over Europe and discovering which countries were importing what. For example
most of the Estonian trucks were loaded with second-hand cars from Germany. I
realised that a lot of life passes through this narrow window. The border
itself
was enormous, and spanned at least one km. I cycled past the cars (average wait
1/2 day) and completed the entire crossing in 45 minutes. The men at the Polish
border seemed to find something hilarious about my visa (or perhaps it was my
bicycle), but I smiled back, secure in the knowledge that everything was in
order with my papers.

Poland

I was filled with a euphoria entering Poland that I still remember now. The
monotonous flat of the Baltic Republics had become rolling hills with slopes
covered in green velvet, there were places to eat, people smiled at me, and I
was deeply relieved that I hadn't been squashed to a red spot on Lithuanian
roads. I splashed out for a hotel room, still in culture shock over the tourist
infrastructure. My face had gone so brown the lady at the hotel desk thought I
was from India. It was somewhat alarming to discover the only thing I
thought of
when I first sunk into the luxury of the hotel room was my newly purchased map
and the next day's route. My legs positively tingled at the thought of getting
back on the bicycle.

That evening I read in my guidebook that the Slavs arrived some 2000 years ago.
The Polish State was born in 966 and throughout its history has been plagued by
wars with its neighbours, primarily the Germans and the Russians. The Teutonic
Knights controlled the Baltic coastline for awhile until the 15th century when
Poland finally regained access to the Baltic Sea. A large German population
remained, however. During the 15th and 16th centuries Poland was one of the
great European powers and the arts and sciences thrived. It didn't last,
however, as a period of decline and foreign invasions took its toll. The
Swedish
invasion was particularly disastrous, destroying many cities and parts of the
countryside, and the Polish population was more than halved through war, famine
and disease. The country disappeared from the map after the Partitions in the
late 18th century. Polish culture endured, however, and nationalism remained
strong.

Hard economic conditions in the early 1900s forced many Poles to seek a better
life abroad, including my grandfather who emigrated to Canada in 1928. Poland
regained independence in 1918, only to be carved up between the Germans and the
Russians in 1939 at the outbreak of the Second World War. Within less than a
year nearly 2 000 000 Poles were sent to Siberia, the Soviet Arctic and
Kazakhstan. The Poles suffered further atrocities during the war at the
hands of
both the Russians and the Germans, only to end up in 1945 under Communist Rule.
The Polish spirit remained strong, however, and events led to the formation of
Solidarity in 1980. Pressure for democracy grew, culminating in free elections
by 1990. The Poles had a head start on their Baltic neighbours and new
development was evident everywhere.

The Polish language is part of the west branch of the Slavic subfamily of
Indo-European languages. The Latin alphabet was adapted to write the Polish
language with the addition of diacritical marks, but I was surprised how close
many of the words were to Russian.

I looked at people toiling in their fields with a new awareness. Perhaps I felt
a kindred spirit from my roots that a relatively nomadic life had otherwise
removed. It tugged at my heartstrings to recognise so much from holidays spent
with my grandparents - the religious icons, the facial features, the style of
clothes, the food, the words and phrases from conversations long ago. I
realised
that but for a courageous spirit that brought my grandparents to Canada, it
could have been me there in the fields. Well, perhaps not since then my parents
would never have met, but the idea still consumed me over many kilometres.

The wind was now blowing steadily from the west as if anticipating my change in
direction. It poured with rain but I had some hopes that the wind might change.
Ha! In the morning the skies were dark and threatening and I realised it
was the
sort of day which would either be great or horrible, but nowhere in between. It
was a full on head wind, quite intense, and progress was tediously slow. After
ages of cycling I looked down at the computer to find I had only gone 5 km.
Blimey. After that I turned off the computer. But I seemed to tap some deep
reservoir of energy whose release brought a state of euphoria that lasted
throughout the day. I cycled faster and faster, quite exhilarated, and
broke out
in peals of laughter at unexpected moments. I leaned into the fresh breeze and
thought of the Baltic Sea, that distant body of water that defined my trip but
now was a nearly forgotten memory. Later a proper storm came with inky black
clouds and forks of lightning across the sky followed by crashing thunder. The
rain came down in buckets accompanied by hail, but even puncture #1 made barely
a dent as my face broke out in irrepressible smiles and I realised that I was
incredibly happy.

On the way to Gdansk I saw a couple pedalling the other way on a tandem. These
was the first cyclists that I had seen on the trip and we both came to a
screeching halt to greet one another. Here was an authentic example of Galen
Rowell's hello factor ("Galen Rowell's Vision: The Art of Adventure
Photography", Mountain Light Press, 1993), separating adventure from the
mundane, the desire to say hello in situations out of the ordinary instead of
passing without comment. The cyclists were from Stockholm and were pedalling
from Gdansk to Tallinn; it was the first day of their trip and they were
fascinated to hear of my travels. Such was the fellowship between cyclists that
they immediately offered their place to me in Stockholm. They described the
incredible feeling of going 60 km/hr without pedalling, the wind at their back.
Indeed. I thought of my own experiences that day pedalling in the lowest gear
going down the hills but said nothing.

I arrived in Gdansk in the early morning, determined to take my first rest day
after 11 days of cycling. But the youth hostel was already full and enquiries
went poorly at the railway station. It should have been a simple task to find a
train that would take Mackenzie to Szczecin (a city as difficult to
pronounce as
it is to reach), but the only information produced with my feeble Polish by
repeated attempts at the ticket window was that I had to go to Gdynia. My
spirits sunk but Gdansk still beckoned. Suddenly an elderly woman approached,
spoke to me in German, and in one of those extraordinary miracles of modern
travel all my problems were solved in an instant. We went together to the
ticket
window where she spoke in perfect Polish, and I came away with a ticket for the
following day to take Mackenzie and myself on the Berlin InterRegio
(appropriately named Mare Balticum). She also did private accommodation, lived
nearby, and offered me a bed for the night. Later she told me that she normally
goes to the railway station to find overnight guests, was drawn to my open face
and followed me around before approaching. Both her parents had died the
previous year and now her husband was in hospital with lung cancer; somehow her
need for sympathetic companionship and my need for human contact after so many
lonely days on the road had intersected at the railway station.

Gdansk was a fascinating city, and I wandered around in the afternoon
thoroughly
entranced. It was once the greatest port on the Baltic Sea and the most
important trading centre in central and eastern Europe. In the mid-16th century
it was the largest Polish city and controlled 3/4 of Poland's foreign
trade, and
Napoleon was heard to say it was the key to everything. History was everywhere:
the Second World War started here on 1 September 1939, and strikes in the
shipyards in 1980 led to the formation of Solidarity. More than 90% of the city
was destroyed at the end of the Second World War, but after removal of more
than
two million square metres of rubble, it was restored brick by brick to the
stunning city it is today.

Scenery flashed by at an unbelievable rate, and I peered through the rain
trying
to glimpse a view of the Polish Baltic coast. This was the part of the Baltic
that I knew best from childhood, the tales of amber washed up along the beach.
It seemed ironic that I had to miss this part, but life is too short for
regrets
and I decided this was an excellent incentive to plan a week-long cycling tour
some sunny week in autumn.

I arrived in Szczecin for my last night on Polish soil. The city looked
drab and
grey, a result of unimaginative post-war restoration during the Soviet era.
While I was in one hotel enquiring about rooms, I heard a loud explosion
outside. It didn't enter my consciousness until the second explosion occurred,
when realisation suddenly dawned that I might have just heard Mackenzie's last
gasp. I rushed towards the door just as I heard the third explosion - it wasn't
Mackenzie's tyres after all and I returned to the desk quite relieved.

So far each country had given me a farewell present and Poland was no
exception.
The 20 km stretch to the border was paved with spine-shattering cobblestones, a
preview of surprises to come. The man at the Polish border asked if I had any
vodka or cigarettes, then laughed at his own joke. There was no border control
on the German side, only the familiar "Bundesrepublik Deutschland" and I felt
like I was coming home.

Germany

The first permanent settlements in Germany were established by the Celts 10 000
years ago with subsequent migrations from other groups, notably nomadic
Germanic
tribes and the Romans. A major influence in the Baltic region were the Teutonic
Knights, a religious military order formed by German Crusaders in the 12th
century. Within 200 years the Knights held the entire Baltic area from the Gulf
of Finland through Pomerania in Poland, but eventually the order was abolished
in the region, the southern part becoming Prussia and the northern region
divided among Poland, Russia and Sweden. A major economic influence in the
Baltic region was the Hanseatic League, organised during the 13th century for
the protection and promotion of commercial interests. A later influence in the
Baltic region was Prussia, built up as a strongly centralised state in the 18th
century. Prussia was an increasing influence within the developing German state
and became a central part of the united German Empire that was formed in the
late 19th century. Germany's role in the First and Second World Wars is well
known, as well as the large amount of destruction that occurred. The eastern
part was in the Russian zone of occupation and a centralised government
developed on the Soviet model, ending with German unification in 1990.

The German language belongs to the West branch of the Germanic family of
Indo-European languages. Six years of living in the country had given me a
passable fluency, and I savoured the ability to speak in sentences of more than
two or three words.

Road conditions had steadily improved since Lithuania, and if Polish roads were
glass, then German roads were silk. There was only a quiet whoosh to be heard
and pedalling seemed nearly effortless. Except for the incessant head wind, of
course, and I idly wondered what it would be like without it. Dangerous
thoughts, those, best left alone.

I had forgotten the fondness of former East Germany for cobblestones, and it
wasn't long before my world disintegrated into a blurry haze. Nearly every town
was paved with these treasures, and occasional long stretches of the main road
between towns. Was this their answer to speed control? It certainly reduced my
speed, and it was difficult to put visions of cycling in clouds of flying bike
parts out of my head. Later I discovered that some parts really did fly off and
I had to stop in Anklam for repairs. The lady in the cycle shop asked where I
had been, and didn't believe me at first when I told her. She said she couldn't
imagine doing such a trip, even in a car.

Former East Germany has always been interesting for me, perhaps because of its
forbidden borders (forbidden things have fascinated me ever since
childhood). My
journey was very much focused on borders, both old and new, and I thought about
borders I had already crossed - those which have ceased to exist such as
Sweden/Finland, now both members of the European Union, and those which have
recently appeared such as between the Baltic States. These latter borders were
quite real, separating the population cleanly as with a knife, and it was rare
to see motorists with number plates from the adjoining Baltic countries.

As if sensing my intentions the wind changed to the north. (Superstitious? Me?)
I took my time along the road to Rostock, deciding not to rush for the ferry.
Looking at the map I saw that the autobahn went directly to the ferry terminal,
so naturally all signs pointed that way. Everyone I asked could only point me
towards the autobahn, having no clue how a cyclist would reach the ferry. I
ended up lost in the industrial area of Rostock (not a pretty sight), and
had to
take compass bearings to orient myself. Salvation finally came in the form of
transit maps at bus stops, and I navigated from bus stop to bus stop like a
ping
pong ball.

"Hurry, or you'll miss it!" Miss what? According to my schedule the ferry to
Gedser didn't leave for another 45 minutes, but I cycled madly along the ramp
and got on the ferry just before they shut the door. How odd. I settled myself
in a comfy chair, ate lunch, then fell fast asleep. The next thing I knew a
woman was shaking me saying we were there. Where? At first I didn't know where
we were - in my stuporous state I thought it was five years ago and I was on a
ferry in Scotland. I looked at my watch and was even more confused; it was
supposed to take 2 hours but only 90 minutes had gone by. I asked people where
we were, but they looked at me like I was feeble in the head (I certainly felt
it). Still in a daze I cycled off the ferry, not knowing what country we were
in. To add to my confusion I had boarded the ferry in heavy overcast skies and
now it was cloudless sunshine. But the gods were on my side, and only twenty
four hours after arriving in Germany, I was in Denmark.

Denmark

I nearly fell off Mackenzie when I saw the neat blue signs indicating the bike
routes. An old man gazed at me open mouthed and probably thought me daft as I
hopped off my bike to take pictures of them. The signs were just like on the
autobahn, giving distances and indicating all important intersections - no
possibility to go wrong, even for me.

Separated at last from the constant whoosh of overtaking cars and trucks, I
recovered the joy of cycling. Denmark rated quite low on Galen Rowell's hello
factor scale; there were so many cyclists we barely gave one another a second
glance. Summer still hadn't arrived in northern Europe, but the clouds gave the
landscape an intensity that animated otherwise placid scenery. There was
lots of
rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning, but the gods were still smiling on
me when puncture #2 came in one of the sunny breaks.

The Danes are thought to have migrated from Sweden some 1500 years ago. The
Danish monarchy, claimed to be the oldest in the world, dates from Gorm the Old
in the early 10th century. In the late 14th century Denmark, Norway and Sweden
formed a union under the Danish crown to counter the influence of the Teutonic
Knights. Sweden pulled out in the 16th century, however, resulting in many
border struggles between Sweden and Denmark over the next few hundred years.
Denmark thrived during the reign of Christian IV, and many Renaissance cities,
castles and palaces were built. Denmark's borders were gradually reduced
through
failed military campaigns, including the loss of Norway to Sweden and
Schleswig-Holstein to Germany in the 19th century. Denmark remained neutral
during the First World War, surrendered to Germany at the start of the Second
World War, but had an active Resistance movement. Denmark was the first
Scandinavian country to become a member of what was then the European Community
(now the European Union) in 1973.

Danish belongs to the Scandinavian branch of the Germanic subfamily of
Indo-European languages. Like Swedish and Norwegian, it derived from an early
common Scandinavian language. Pronunciation is challenging and "consonants are
drawled, swallowed and even omitted completely ...". Although I had good
intentions to learn something of the language, my stuttering attempts were
almost always met by replies in flawless English.

I reached Slangerup and the home of Ole and Dorrit Johnsen on the afternoon of
my second day in Denmark. We had first met on a field excursion in northern
Italy, and I had promised to visit them one day in Denmark. The warmth of their
hospitality was overwhelming - a genuine example of "hygge", a Danish concept I
had read about meaning cosy and snug. I struggled to maintain a semblance of
normality despite the withdrawal symptoms and extreme restlessness that
developed when I put Mackenzie away for a few days. Ole and Dorrit were
fortunately tolerant and indulged me one day by taking Mackenzie on their
car to
Copenhagen, 44 km to the east. Cycling back against the west wind was a bit
breezy, slowing my progress to little more than walking pace, but it was
glorious to be cycling again after a three day break.

I gave my scheduled lecture at the Technical University of Denmark and was
rewarded with more offers to dinner than I could accept. In the end I enjoyed a
wonderful dinner with Steen and Jette Morup, my last dinner before setting off
on the next leg of my journey.

My legs were positively tingling at the thought of getting on the bike, and
although part of me was reluctant to leave, I knew it was time to be moving on.
Nearly all roads had bike tracks alongside, and when they didn't there was
usually a sign saying no bikes allowed. I thought about the left hand rule,
that
cyclists may not turn left from the left hand lane with other traffic but must
instead make a wide turn using the two right hand crosswalks. I decided it was
almost as if they didn't trust cyclists' judgement. But then perhaps it was
just
the head wind making me cranky.

This was now Day 17 of cycling against the head wind, and I decided if it
changed to the east for the ride from Oslo to Stockholm there would be a
wail of
despair so loud they would hear it back in Bayreuth. I noticed that all other
cyclists were going in the opposite direction; all except one from Copenhagen,
that is, who said it was complete madness going in this direction. My brakes
seized from lack of use; when I wanted to stop I simply took my feet off the
pedals and the wind did the rest. In one memorable moment a particularly strong
gust blew me completely off my bike. I picked myself out of the field, rather
surprised but unhurt. Engine performance was deteriorating and I took frequent
naps during the day using Mackenzie as a pillow and my map as a blanket.
Perhaps
not a dignified position for a German civil servant, but then dignity had been
an early casualty of the trip.

Arrangements for Oslo still hadn't been settled, and I kept myself occupied by
stopping along the way at isolated telephone booths, assembling coins in piles
and dialling assorted numbers in Norway. I reached one answering machine that
had a voice so professional I wondered if it was the Norwegian equivalent of
"the number you have reached is not in service".

My destination was Hirtshals at the northwest tip of Denmark. After arriving I
took Mackenzie for a ride on Tornby Strand and dipped my toes into the
North Sea
while a heavy mist rolled in from the ocean.

In the morning I took the ferry to Norway. For more than four hours I sat
outside on the deck with my face in the wind, no thoughts of boredom as my mind
wandered freely and struggled to assimilate the experiences of the trip so far.
Not so many people understand why I take such holidays, shunning a pleasant
cycle through Provence or similar for the rigours of the Alps or eastern
European borders. It is rewarding, certainly, but the reason goes deeper and
reflects more of my approach to life than I realise. One month away from
research is a long time and I thought of what I could have accomplished had I
stayed at home. I realised, however, that my accomplishments are as much due to
work invested directly as they are to extracurricular activities. The latter
provides much of the enthusiasm, energy and creativity that separates the
innovative from the mundane, the inspired from the ordinary. Many of my best
ideas come during cycling, and I value greatly the two hour commute by bicycle
to and from work each day. These trips are an extension of that concept and
enrich the physical and mental aspects of my being in ways that a holiday
on the
beach could never achieve.

News of Uncle Bill's death was still fresh, and I felt the tight knot of grief
that had formed when I had spoken to my parents the day before. I wrote a
letter
to Aunt Emily, tears running down my cheeks. I cried for Uncle Bill's
death, for
Aunt Emily's grief, and for the inevitable fact that we can never go back in
time. In some ways my trip seemed rather frivolous and I thought of the recent
postcards that I had gaily addressed to both of them in ignorance of his
passing
away. But then I thought how much his death was a reminder of life's fragility
and transience and felt very lucky to be able to pursue challenges with a whole
body and mind.

Norway

Norway was not really on the Baltic Sea, but a visit to the country the
previous
November had formed the core of a resolve to return. Norway's greatest
influence
on history was during the Viking Age, which included among other
accomplishments
the unification of Norway near 900. Norway became part of a union with Denmark
in the late 14th century, but control was transferred to Sweden after the
Napoleanic Wars. Nationalism eventually led to the peaceful secession from
Sweden in 1905, and Norwegians voted for a monarchy, selecting a Danish prince
to be their king. Like Denmark, Norway remained neutral during the First World
War, was attacked by the Germans during the Second World War, and developed an
active Resistance movement. Unlike Denmark, Norway has so far remained outside
the European Union.

Like Danish, Norwegian also belongs to the Scandinavian branch of the Germanic
subfamily of Indo-European languages. Unlike Danish, Norwegian has two forms.
Bokmal evolved from Danish, the official language of Norway from the late 15th
century, incorporating native Norwegian pronunciation and some native
grammatical influences. Nynorsk evolved from Landsmal, which was based on
Norwegian dialects and free of Danish influence. Both are official languages of
Norway.

The approach up Oslofjord was spectacular, with mountains rising from the water
against a deep blue sky. Norway produced a resonance inside me unlike any
so far
this trip. I spent the night at the home of Geir Sonnerud, a scientist I
had met
on an airplane last November. I was somewhat hesitant, uncertain how far
hospitality from such a passing encounter extended. But in the end I needn't
have worried - the reception was warm and welcoming and belied our short
acquaintance.

From Oslo I moved onto Gjerdrum, a small town 40 km to the north and the
home of
Truls and Ingvild Norby. I found the Norwegian version of "hygge" in the cosy
and warm feeling of their hospitality. I spent a wonderful two days with them
and their two children, visiting museums, talking science, and sampling more of
Norway's yummy food.

Too quickly the visit was over and it was time to move on. I noted with some
alarm that I had only pencilled in three days for Oslo to Stockholm, a journey
of nearly 600 km. During the previous days all was still as if the wind gods
were waiting to see which direction I chose. In the end it was a cold north
wind, more reminiscent of autumn than midsummer.

The day started terribly. I was queasy, out of sorts, and out of resonance with
my surroundings. I pedalled like a zombie - looking but not seeing. I missed
Richard, at times with an intense ache, and felt a melancholy so deep it
touched
the bottom of my soul. My legs were well trained, though, and their mechanical
action kept the kilometres moving beneath the tyres.

After such moments the good times are so much better and they weren't long in
coming. By early evening my stomach had untied, the cobwebs were gone, and life
was good again. My legs responded and I was seized by an unearthly energy - it
was no problem putting 200 km beneath the tyres before the sun set.

There was lots of rain. I loved to feel the first drops hissing on my hot face,
washing away the crusts of salt. I loved to stretch my face into the sky,
closing my eyes to the soothing massage of water on my aching eyelids and
tasting the fresh rain on my tongue. Bubbles of happiness grew inside, erupting
in explosions of joy and laughter. After each deluge the sun would return,
shafts of sunlight illuminating single objects, shining with an unearthly glow
against the stormy background. I used to think I was such a complex person, but
at times like these I realised that the simple things in life are the ones I
cherish most.

Sweden (again)

The border between Norway and Sweden was the most relaxed of the trip,
consisting of two small signs in the middle of isolated forest. There was a
post
box with instructions for those with something to declare - details to be
written on a piece of paper and deposited into the box.

During Roman times Sweden was dominated by two Germanic tribes, but by the 11th
century the Svear (Swedes) eventually overcame the Gauts (Goths) and a Swedish
state began to take shape. The south belonged to Denmark for awhile, but
eventually Sweden broke away from the Danish crown. Swedish power strengthened
and by the 17th century Sweden controlled much of Finland and the Baltic
countries. Subsequent military defeats, however, particularly by Russia,
reduced
Sweden's territory. Sweden remained neutral during both the First and Second
World Wars, escaping relatively unscathed. Together with Finland and Austria,
Sweden joined the European Union in 1995.

Swedish is part of the Scandinavian branch of the Germanic language subfamily.
It evolved from the common Scandinavian language into Old Swedish and developed
a unique accent involving both stress and variations in musical pitch,
giving it
a singsong rhythm.

Like heroin to a drug addict I couldn't resist the final challenge. After the
first day it really did look possible to reach Stockholm in two more days -
stupid, perhaps, but a satisfying way to end the trip.

The last day arrived. Scenery became flat, somewhat frightening to look at, but
was enlivened by the occasional thunderstorm. My body was really hurting -
muscles throbbed, sores opened, bruises on my hands were painful, and my
shoulder burned. This was near my limit and I realised that doing this distance
every day on a tour would be difficult.

I reached Uppsala at lunchtime. Everything looked the same from previous
visits,
yet it was so different seeing it from my present perspective. I plotted a
route
for the remaining 75 km to Akersberga. At times I was nearly overcome with
thoughts of finishing and wondered how emotional I would feel when it was all
finished. Would I collapse in tears like after the running marathons I had
completed? I rather hoped not as Ulf and Elke Halenius were scientific
colleagues as well as good friends. In the end it was quite mundane, only a
formal shaking of hands. Mostly I just felt numb. It was incredible to stop,
though, and my body felt really shattered.

Hospitality in Akersberga was wonderful, and together with the children, Astrid
and Erik, we spent many happy hours sightseeing, playing games and just
relaxing. During the games I learned useful words for colours, numbers and
animals. I also learned words to say when things don't go quite right, words
that don't normally make it to the dictionaries.

As I slowly unwound I began to realise how much the frosty reception
through the
Baltic States had shaken my self confidence. The day after finishing I sat on
the terrace writing postcards and felt an incredible peace and tranquillity
inside. It was not a proud or conceited feeling for having completed such a
trip, but simply a contentment to enjoy simple things - the gentle breeze, the
gurgling of the fountain, the birds singing. I did make a few mental notes to
myself for future trips, however: